


Cras Et Noster

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [7]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: History, Ireland, M/M, Monks, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: "What will you do when we get to Cork?" Gosmungo asks as they sit on the deck and watch the headland that shelters the harbor inch ever closer with each rise and fall of the bow.





	Cras Et Noster

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is what-if labor of love, not lucre.

_Cras et noster -- Tomorrow be ours_

* * *

"What will you do when we get to Cork?" Gosmungo asks as they sit on the deck and watch the headland that shelters the harbor inch ever closer with each rise and fall of the bow.

Diarmuid smiles crookedly at the question. "To be honest? I will see what I can convince your kinsmen to spare for my friend and I. At the very least we need flint and steel, two good waterskins, and bread and cheese for the journey to Kilmanan … unless you know of somebody sailing that way?"

Gosmungo chortles darkly at that. "Not likely. Trade that way is slim at the best of times. I know that it is home to you, but I hear tell there's nothing that way except for monks, rocks, and some very sorry sheep."

The wind stirs Diarmuid's curls as he laughs. "No, it's true, but I love it still." His smile fades and his voice softens, "The question is, what will _you_ do when we get to Cork?"

He pricks up his ears to catch Gosmungo's words, for Gosmungo slammed the door on any chance for advancement in Ireland by coming to their aid when he did, and much hangs on how Gosmungo's family takes the news.

Gosmungo's bright red hair whips in the wind and the bow rises and falls several times before he replies, "My mother will speak her mind and then I will go to my father's people in Strathclyde." He smiles, but it's thin. "I've always wanted to see the resting place of St. Mungo's bones, you see."

Diarmuid reaches over and squeezes Gosmungo's shoulder, "And at last, you shall."

~oo(0)oo~

Gosmungo's father, Owain, is currently at sea, en route to Gwened in Brittany. (Gosmungo's family may not like Normans, but Bretons are a different matter.)

Gosmungo's mother, Aoife, is a commanding presence, ruling her household with a stern look and the occasional switch from her walking stick. She's a woman of striking looks, but the iron grey curls that escape from her coif and fillet mean Gosmungo was her autumn child. Her eyes are the same clear, bright hazel as her son's, but from the look in them he can see that she is the sort of woman who does not tolerate lies, dissembling, or embellishments. The simple cross about her neck makes it clear that she's godly, but her manners do not seem overly pious.

He wonders how much of their story she believes.

To say that Gosmungo's return under these circumstances does not please her is an understatement, and two days after their arrival, the fight is on. He cradles Diarmuid's hand in his as they sit in her herb garden, but her voice is only a little dimmed by the walls between them, and Diarmuid's dark eyes go remote and glassy with worry as the shouting escalates. He tries to give an encouraging squeeze, but try as he might, his hand won't complete the lie.

It climaxes with Gosmungo roaring back at her that he is the son of a woman who threw away a marriage with a son of _The_ MacCarthy because she took a fancy to an outlander who offered no favorable alliance, position and money be damned, so why should he, the fruit of that very womb, be less strong-minded and more biddable?

Only, not so … politely ... as that.

"And the Prelate may not have smelled of pig-shit, like that MacCarthy of yours, but he certainly has nothing but in his heart for the Irish!" Gosmungo yells in conclusion before storming from the house and into the yard, his face pink with rage.

Aoife calls them to the great room the next morning and questions Diarmuid intently. He can see the strain in Diarmuid's face as he answers, and a part of him is glad it is not him in that seat, for Aoife makes the no-nonsense Mother Superior of Cill Choilchín seem the soul of sweetness by comparison.

When all is said, she strikes the bargain: they will work in her herb garden and help the carpenter mend the chicken coop, plus evening prayers for her family for a week and she'll provide the necessities of their passage.

~oo(0)oo~

He hears the tap tap tap of her walking stick as Aoife shuffles up behind him. He's pulling cheat grass from the sorrel in the garden.

She speaks without preamble. "Gosmungo and young Diarmuid tell me that you have been on the Crusade and have seen the Holy Land."

He turns, takes a knee, and nods his answer.

"The two of you really do plan to go out into the lands of war to return to this monastery of yours?"

Again he nods, though more gravely. 

"No little thing, that." There's a touch of respect in her voice and he smiles at it.

"Come, show me this wound of yours, the one from the miracle they tell me of. Tales have a way of growing in the telling and I would see it with my own eyes."

He pauses a moment then stands and lifts the hem of his shirt, showing her the scar which is still red and angry looking in its newness.

"Mother of God!" She gasps and crosses herself. Words start in her mouth several times but get nowhere before she gathers herself, clears her throat, and says, "You shall have all you need and then some for your crossing, and our prayers as well to help God and his Saints guide you."

~oo(0)oo~

Gosmungo performs a blessing for them shortly after dawn on the day they set out.

Aoife is as good as her word about the provisions. They have a length of good sailcloth to shelter beneath, two waterskins filled from a well where the water is particularly sweet and clean, flint and steel, a sack of oats, salt, sea-bread, and three wheels of hard cheese. She's also equipped them with a trencher, a kitchen knife, two spoons, and a small iron pot for cooking. As they're about to exit, she gives them two stout hickory staves "good for walking" and a small purse with 7 pence in it.

Her younger sister lives in a village an all day walk from here. After that …?

Gosmungo reaches them just after they've passed through the city gates, winded from his run to catch them, carrying a small bundle.

It's a falchion (good for fighting in close quarters at sea he recalls) sheath, and belt. "It was my older brother's," Gosmungo explains. "Columba, too, was going on crusade, but a fever took him in Bordeaux, I'm told. Somehow, it came back to us."

Gosmungo draws the blade from the sheath. A good blade. Not a knight's weapon, but well made and properly balanced. The leather on the hilt is worn and cracking a little, but care will keep it. With a deep sigh he allows Gosmungo to gird him. As the belt settles into place around his hips, it feels righter than he likes. A small pouch on the opposite side of the sheath contains a whetstone and a tiny, carefully padded flask of oil.

Diarmuid studies him for several heartbeats, then meets his eyes. He understands what this means, what Gosmungo has done without realizing it. "Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it, my friend," he says quietly. Then, to Gosmungo, "Does your mother approve?"

Gosmungo laughs. "I pray she doesn't find out until I've crossed the Irish Sea." He then raises his hand and gives them another benediction.

"Pray for us when you reach St. Mungo's shrine," Diarmuid says when he's finished, and turns. "We will pray for you in Kilmanan," he throws over his shoulder with a smile.

As they head down the road, he offers a silent prayer of his own that Gosmungo finds a Bishop worthy of having the service of such a man in Strathclyde.


End file.
